While stopped in traffic, yesterday's rumors torment me; If thirty percent cut, I could survive. My job evaluation says creative. I have a ton of experience and should be ranked top ten in the department.
Enter building. Coworker exits, security guard at his side. "Sixty percent," he shouts.
People scramble in corridors. Gossip. "Who got hit?"
People congregate in cubicles. Stare. Hand over mouth.
Close office door. Sit. Wait. Tremble.
Books. Schematics. Unfinished to-do list. Master's degree on wall. Wife's picture.
Phone rings. Boss. "Can I see you in my office."